Swan Lake
by CoryphaeusRex
Summary: Narcissa is disappointed with her new husband, and Karkaroff's masquerade party only serves to highlight how inadequate he is. Narcissa/Avery. Written as a trade with thedragonchaser. M for a reason.


**Author's Notes and Disclaimer: **Again, I am the slave of thedragonchaser. She's got that ol' whip crackin' and is making me write much het Death Eater PWP. This is another 'unhappy marriage' scenario focusing on Narcissa and Avery. Sex, drugs (not really) and ballroom dancing within. Read and review.

**Act 1** – _A magnificent park before a castle._

An angel descending from heaven, her silk-slippered feet make no sound on the marble steps. She is dressed all in white satin, with diamonds in her hair, pinning the blonde locks up until they are allowed to cascade down in a waterfall over her perfect, white shoulder. Her tutu reaches to the knee, and her gloves cover her elbows. The line between her clothes and her skin is faint, she is so pale. The feathers at the side of the mask sweep back, cradling her head between the fake wings.

A feather drops to the floor, and she sweeps by, leaving only this as evidence of her passing. With a whisper of satin, she passes through the ballroom. The crowd opens, and in her wake there is a gap, the sea parted.

He is in the crowd, he's one of the people at the front as she sails on by. He could reach out and touch her, feel her satin dress and her velvet skin beneath his coarse fingertips, but he steps back, in awe, as does everyone else, allowing her to go where she pleases.

Her husband is still at the top of the steps. He is all in white, with gold braid at his shoulders and cuffs, but on him it looks fake, the devil-as-innocent, the whore pretending to be a virgin on her wedding day. Even his fair hair, whiter even than hers, is dull and grey-looking.

Avery is dressed as a pirate. He cast about for a costume and this was the best he could come up with on the short notice Karkaroff had given him. The man is around here somewhere, dressed as the devil (oh ho, Igor, what a _droll_ disguise), theatrically twirling a pitchfork and trying to impress his social superiors so he'll be accepted as a Death Eater. Give Karkaroff an exclusive clique he's not part of and he'll do _anything_ to be accepted into it. He'd sign a contract in blood if you asked him.

There's got to be some of that sort of stuff going on, Avery thinks, with Karkaroff dressed as the devil and being ever so civil to that young dark-haired girl dressed as a vampire bride. It's 1979 and Hammer Horror is in its death throes, but there are still some who are into their retro kick. Avery wonders if she's ever met a real vampire, and if she knows what she's doing by flirting with Karkaroff. She can't be any older than fourteen, and at that age you think you're invulnerable. She'll learn otherwise before tomorrow.

Lucius is striking up a conversation with Severus, dressed unoriginally as a rather skinny raven but distinguishable by his greasy hair and beak-like nose. Avery wonders if he actually sat down and considered that before choosing his costume. It suits him.

Narcissa is still nowhere to be seen, having vanished into the crowd. Avery wonders how he managed to take his eyes off her enough to lose her, and how she could actually effectually vanish into a crowd. He looks out for a white nimbus above a gap in the throng, in case that's where she is.

As he strolls through the party, he notices a feather on the floor, and follows a trail of them until they lead him to an archway, and through a small, unobtrusive door, to a small disused ante-room of Durmstrang castle.

**Act 2** – _In the distance a lake, on the right side of which are ruins._

She is in there, sitting on an ornamental table that probably cost at least a hundred Galleons, but Karkaroff has always been careless with his wealth. Her mask is shedding feathers and she has one of them in her hands, pulling the fibres away from the shaft and flicking them away, where they float down in a little pile of fluffy down at her feet.

"Narcissa?" Avery says, and she jumps, the feather tearing in half in her hands. She crumples it, hides it in her fist and stands up, turning away from him.

"I'm fine," she says, and there is the catch of tears in her voice. Avery hasn't asked how she is, and anyone who answers a question like that before it's asked is definitely _not_ fine.

"Your husband is looking for you," he says, and as he does so he knows it's the wrong thing to say. She laughs, and the bitterness in the sound surprises him. He's younger than she is, but he always thinks of her as a young girl, because she is so petite.

"Husband," she says, with scorn in every syllable. "My caretaker, the man I've been palmed off onto by my family. My _breadwinner_. He just wants to show me off as his perfect little china doll, and I shan't give him the satisfaction."

"You only got married last year," Avery says. Surely it can't be so bad already. Aren't newlyweds supposed to be delirious with carnal delight for at least two years?

"One year too long," she spits. "He's an impotent _prick _and I wish he'd _die_ so I can be a merry widow."

Avery steps over to her, takes hold of her icy cold arms with his hot hands, and she flinches but doesn't brush him off. Impotent? The great Lucius Malfoy? Well this is an interesting development. He runs his hands up to her shoulders, warming her marble skin. It's like she's carved from ice for all the good it does.

"He's not worthy of you," he says, with feeling. He's lusted after her since she was a fifth-year, and he'd just turned thirteen and was overcome with a rush of hormones. It's one of the reasons he became friends with Severus, to have the excuse to spend time with Lucius and therefore have more chance of seeing Narcissa.

She can surely feel his breath on her neck, warming her cold, flawless skin and he's trying not to breathe in the scent of her hair but he's going to have to inhale sometime and there he goes. She smells of flowers and perfume and vanilla, and the smell goes straight to his head.

She rolls her shoulder, a little motion he doesn't notice until his lips are pressed against her skin. He kisses her, softly, reverently, as though she's the idol and he's one of a million worshippers in the temple.

"Who is, Avery?" she asks, and he smiled against her shoulder.

"I am."

**Act 3** – _An opulent hall in the castle._

She turns, and puts those gloved arms around his neck, and she kisses him, the kiss of a virgin who's trying desperately not to be taken for one. It's the over enthusiasm that gives her away. For a twenty-one year old, Avery hasn't done too poorly for himself in the realm of women, and he's slightly surprised that Narcissa is still pure and pristine.

"I've never-" she says, and bites her lip before she finishes the sentence. He hushes her, puts his arms around her waist, kisses that perfect swan neck.

"Poor Narcissa," he says, softly. "He's not man enough to give you what you want?"

He reaches under the mess of tulle below her waist and runs a hand over the outside of her perfect white thigh, before sweeping around the front and slipping a delicate, questing finger between her legs. He hears her gasp, and begins to rub gently at her, touching her in a way Lucius has never cared to.

"Is this what you want, Narcissa?" he asks, his breath dancing across her skin. "Is this going to make me worthy of you?"

She doesn't really need to answer, he can feel the lace (white, he imagines, with embroidered roses and a satin ribbon at the waist) of her panties getting wet under his touch. But she does, and the sound of the _need_ in her voice is more musical to him than the bolero that, against all sanity, Karkaroff has had started up outside.

"Yes," she says, and Avery tugs at the lace until he can slip his hand inside, through the small curl of hair and onto this, the only warm part of her, so hot and wet than it seems as though her ice shell is melting. His fingers slip over her clitoris, and she sighs against his shoulder.

Her panties fall to her ankles, and she steps one foot out of them. Avery glances down, and notices that they _are_ white. He's mildly gratified to find that the little virgin angel who is writhing under his fingers doesn't dress like a whore underneath. If they'd have been black he'd have been very disappointed.

He feels her buck under his touch, and she whimpers in his ear. He withdraws his hand, sticky with her, and slowly sucks the juices from his fingers, savouring the taste of her.

"Are you satisfied, Narcissa?" he asks, and she looks at him with hunger in his eyes and he knows he's lit a flame in her loins.

"No," she says, without bothering to cushion the blow. "I want more."

He picks her up, sits her on a table, spreads her legs, and watches her sitting there, with a slut's smile and the dress of an angel, as he unfastens his belt and his trousers. He pulls her closer to him, to the very edge of the table, and he can feel her heat on the head of his cock.

"Shall I be gentle with you, Narcissa?" he asks, rather than the usual 'are you sure?'

**Act 4** – _A mountainous wild place, surrounded by forest._

She bites her lip, torn between the pride of the whore's persona she's taken on herself, and the very real fear of pain. With the company she keeps, it's mildly surprising.

"Do what you will," she says, and he holds her hips with his hands as he pushes in. Her breathing is quick, and he can see out of the corner of his eye that her eyes are screwed up with the pain. Once he's all the way in, easy because she's so slick, she relaxes a little.

"You look very beautiful in pain, my love," he says, and she's at least spent enough time around Death Eaters not to be uneasy about a statement like that.

"Avery," she breathes, and kisses him as he begins to fuck her. He feels her breath hiss between his teeth, but perseveres, and gradually she stops noticing the pain. He wonders why Lucius would pass up the opportunity to have such a beautiful and pliant and _tight_ little virgin, and it flashes across his mind that deflowering Narcissa Malfoy is going to have all sorts of consequences later on.

Right now the smell of her and the feel of her around his cock is all that exists in Avery's world.

It gets vigorous rather quickly, something which Avery would find distasteful were it not for the simple fact of Narcissa's blush. Her alabaster cheeks flush red, and he's proud that it is he who has caused the colour and the heat to come back into this ice princess. He feels like Pygmalion, and she his Galatea.

She throws her head back and lets out a beautiful keening noise, not loud enough to be heard above the music but loud enough to let Avery know he's being appreciated. She is pressed against a stained-glass window and as the sunset streams through it, the idea that he is desecrating an angel invades the forefront of his mind. The thought pushes him over the edge, and he comes, with a groan that's probably audible through the whole of Durmstrang castle.

"Avery," she sighs, and leans her flushed face against the edge of the window. She looks at him from beneath her eyelashes, as he tidies himself and prepares to go back into the masquerade ball. "We shall have to do this again."

"Indeed, my lady," he says, and leans down to pick up her discarded panties from the floor. He studies them for a moment, the lace sticky around the gusset, and crumples them in a hand before slipping them into his pocket. Narcissa watches them, with a hint of a leer in her tired smile.

She reaches up to her mask, knocked crooked on her face, and plucks a long white feather from it, blowing it across to him. He catches it in one hand on its lazy way down.

"I look forward to Karkaroff's next party," he says, and sticks the feather in his tricorn pirate hat.

"As do I," she purrs as he leaves.


End file.
